


Fate . . . and the Most Dangerous of All Spells

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Almost No Angst!, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Attraction, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Companionable Snark, Cookies, Cute Ending, Cute Kids, Dog is MORE AWESOME, F/M, Failboats, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humor, Krem is awesome, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Plot/Plotless, Opposites Attract, Ridiculous, Romance, Saccharine, Seriously!, Walk away if you value your teeth, cullrian - Freeform, no redeeming value
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Fate laughs at probabilities.—Edward Bulwer-LyttonIn which Dorian Pavus doesnotwork with children or animals but Fate, apparently, does. And Fate playsdirty, indeed.





	Fate . . . and the Most Dangerous of All Spells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. Unrepentant fluff. Snarky banter and cute—but not _too_?—humor. Title from the Bulwer-Lytton quote and one notable name from Scottish mythology. I steal all the good things.

 

It starts innocuously—as such things always seem to—as a well-deserved long-lunch in the local corporate-funded green-patch.

 

Ostensibly, such a quaint little lunch-break outing is supposed to help “put the pep” back in Dorian’s rather weary step and “the sparkle” back in his ever-tired, somewhat reddened gray eyes.

 

Ostensibly.

 

However, like most of Tam-Lin Lavellan’s bright ideas, it goes predictably askew. Or, unpredictably, Dorian later supposes. Whichever, it amounts to nothing less than Fate poking her nose in where it hadn’t been invited, even though it would be—eventually—welcome.

 

Because, really, who even meets the _love of their life_ during a mediocre lunch-break? Over mediocre (and unspecified) kebabs with a side of half-burnt chips, and lemon-lime sugar-water? Not to mention a lovely afters of half-stale chocolate biscuits that Tam had found in the back of his junky desk’s bottom right hand drawer?

 

 _Tam Lavellan_ does, that’s who. The bloody nuisance.

 

Of course, none of them realize that it’s love or true, or anything other than a dreadfully saccharine _divertissement_ of the sort that habitually makes Tam’s rather scattered, bemused day and utterly disrupts Dorian’s.

 

“I beg your pardon, sirs,” a small, raspy, but painfully polite voice says from Dorian’s left. He’s sitting on a peeling wrought-iron bench that’s surprisingly not covered in bird shit, turned to his right and facing Tam, who’s facing him, as well. Between them, lay the remains of lunch and the packet of chocolate biscuits. After having two for politeness’ sake, Dorian had left the decimation of said biscuits to Tam. The other man, possessed of a voracious and indiscriminate sweet-tooth, had taken up that gauntlet with joyful gusto.

 

Now, the final bite of the final biscuit halfway to his crumb-dusted mouth, Tam pauses and looks in the direction of the voice, as does Dorian.

 

Standing before them in dungarees and a t-shirt with some sort of cartoon characters on it, is a small, but sturdy boy of no more than eight years, with spiky-messy, golden-brown hair, eyes just a shade paler than that hair and—most distractingly—holding the laughably _token_ leash of the largest, most intimidating mutt Dorian has ever seen outside of mythology.

 

The dog is actually taller than the boy and far wider—a brawler of a dog, all muscle and heft, and solid, no-nonsense mass. It’s a muddled greyish-brown, with small, pointed ears, a blunt muzzle, a whippet tail that’s wagging frenetically, and intelligent eyes that are slightly darker than its pelt. It’s panting happily at them, tongue hanging out, with the occasional glimpse of possibly dangerous teeth. But other than those teeth, its brute-pug face is rather dopey and sweet. Relatively.

 

“Hullo, there, lad,” Tam says warmly, because he _loves_ children and finds their infrequent intrusions into his world _darling_. Dorian sniffs and nods at the boy, while keeping an eye on the mutt. “May we help you?”

 

The boy smiles solemnly, and his eyes tick to the empty package of biscuits. “My friend would like one of your biscuits, if you don’t mind. I tried to tell her you might not feel like sharing, but she kept begging me to ask.”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes. He can sense Tam practically melting into a puddle of wibble beside him.

 

“Your friend?” Tam asks, glancing around as if for another child. Dorian snorts.

 

“The _dog_ , obviously, Tam-Lin. Don’t be obtuse.”

 

“Ah.” Tam chuckles, amused, and unoffended by Dorian’s snark, as ever. He leans forward a bit toward the boy, who is still respectful and unafraid. “You’ve got one of those _talking_ dogs I’ve heard so much about, then?”

 

The boy’s brows lift a little and he makes a considering face. “I suppose so, sir. Only she doesn’t talk like _people_ do. But I understand her, anyway. And she’s not _my_ dog. She’s Uncle Cullen’s. Her name’s Cú,” the boy adds, that solemn smile turning into a grin. At his side, the dog barks once, as if in agreement that yes, that _is_ her name. The boy’s smile widens. “And I’m Cremisius Bull. But everyone calls me Krem, ‘cause it’s faster.”

 

Tam sighs, probably with big, fuzzy hearts in his big, emotive green eyes. “Well, aren’t _you_ quite the little gentleman—isn’t he such a _gentleman_ , Dor?”

 

“Why, the only thing that’s missing is a top hat and a monocle!” Dorian exclaims sardonically. Tam huffs, but it’s automatic, not pointed. And bordering on fond.

 

“You’re always such a cynical _See You Next Tuesday_ ,” he mutters sweetly, and likely to Dorian, rather than the child or dog. Then he shifts his tone and volume. “Well, Krem, I’m Tam, and this shy and retiring violet to my right is Dorian. And we’re both _very_ pleased to make yours _and_ Cú’s acquaintance.”

 

“Delighted,” Dorian agrees dryly.

 

Tam holds out his hand after brushing off the chocolate crumbs on the sleeve of his slightly rumpled, blue button-down—which clashes rather unfortunately with his fire engine-red hair—and the boy considers it for a moment before taking it and shaking it. Exactly three times and quite firmly. Tam is simply radiating charmed infatuation, by now, and his _motherly instinct_ , so termed by Dorian and just about everyone else they know, is probably in a state of overdrive. Literally _saturated_ with cute.

 

When Krem frees his hand from Tam’s and shifts his curious gaze left, Dorian groans inwardly, wishing he’d thought to bring hand sanitizer or take one of the little packets of disinfecting wipes at the kebab kiosk.

 

He is, however, saved from the horror of _also_ having to accept what is almost certainly a grubby and sticky little handshake, by the dog, Cú, barking once more, and leaning toward the empty biscuit package hopefully. Her nostrils are flaring and her tail is a blur.

 

“Cú!” Krem chastises, shaking the leash. The dog whines up at him with puppy-eyes that are ridiculous even for a dog. The boy’s briefly stern face softens. “Well, yes, I know you want a biscuit but they haven’t said _yes_ , yet.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Tam murmurs, sighing, then turns to address the dog apologetically. “I _do_ apologize, Miss Cú, but this is the last biscuit and, anyway, chocolate’s _not_ good for puppies. It’d make you very ill, my dear.”

 

Puppy-eyes _and_ a pout, now. Dorian frowns. Dogs are _not_ capable of pouting . . . or so he chooses to believe.

 

“Ohhh,” Krem says sagely, nodding, and solemn again. “He’s right, Cú. Chocolate makes dogs _really_ sick. _Tama_ and Uncle Cullen _said_.”

 

Cú whines a bit more and Tam shoves the mostly-finished biscuit in his shirt pocket. “I’m terribly sorry. If I had anything else on me for snacking, Miss Cú, it’d be yours. But I most certainly _don’t_ want to make such a sweet girl ill for so silly a trifle as a stale biscuit!”

 

With another whine, followed by a grudging grumble, Cú sits on her haunches and sighs, too. Though a big hug from Krem makes her tongue loll again and that whippet-tail regain speed. Then Tam makes a sound of such pathetic wistfulness as he holds out his hand for her to sniff or lick, Dorian groans, and watches as the affable animal does both, followed by a happy, puppy-ish wuff. Tam laughs and leans in to give her pets and scratches, which makes Cú whimper and yip in something that’s practically doggy ecstasy.

 

Krem, meanwhile, is staring at Dorian once more, with big, curious eyes.

 

“I suppose _you_ want scratches and pets, too. And hugs and cuddles, as well?” Dorian inquires, sounding far more dismissive, weary, and put-upon than he actually is. He has a rep to maintain, after all. All it would take would be for Tam to start telling tales about how Dorian was _marginally nice_ to a random child and then all their ridiculous, marriage-and-baby-on-the-brain friends would start trying to see Dorian paired-off, again.

 

And never mind that that last time hadn’t worked out so well.

 

Krem quirks a surprisingly mischievous, old-souled grin at Dorian and shrugs. “Nah. I’m grubby and stinky, right now. And your clothes are very nice. Are you a model?”

 

Dorian blinks and finds himself startled into blushing. And out of actual snark.

 

“Hey-hey, Krem-Brule!” A booming voice suddenly calls from some yards behind Krem and Cú. Boy and dog, Dorian and Tam all turn toward it.

 

Approaching them are a pair of men: the one slightly in the lead is ridiculously tall, dark, and dark-haired. Mighty in build and stride, he’s wearing trainers, tracksuit bottoms, and an unbranded grey t-shirt which nonetheless advertises what must be a _formidable_ exercise regimen. As he draws closer, Dorian notices he’s got a black eye-patch on over his left eye.

 

Just behind this curiosity is another man, smaller, but not exactly small. Slightly above average height, built brawny and solid, wearing a button-down blue shirt similar to Tam’s, only with the sleeves unbuttoned and folded up to just below his elbows. His dark, straight-legged blue jeans are so crisp-looking, they might actually be pressed, his feet shod in broken-in, but well-kept boots. He’s tanned, though not nearly as dark as his large companion, more like a naturally ruddy man who’s spent a lifetime in the sun and working outside. His high taper fade is a strikingly brassy blond and extremely neat.

 

Cú barks an excited greeting and bounds off toward the two men, forsaking Tam’s petting and cooing. A reluctant glance away from the pair and at Tam shows that the other man doesn’t exactly notice. He’s staring at the approaching men—well, Dorian, having _some_ knowledge of Tam’s _type_ , suspects he’s only got eyes for the _larger_ man—with wide, leaf-colored eyes and a gobstruck gape. His usually peachy complexion is a hectic, flushed pink so deep, that his vivid freckles are now invisible.

 

“Don’t forget to _breathe_ , Lavellan. Else, the copious drool won’t be properly aerated,” Dorian reminds him with barely-hidden amusement.

 

“ _Must_ you always be such a spiteful bitch, Dorian-darling?” Tam mutters under his breath—though not under _enough_ , as Krem’s eyes widen and he giggles—but still absently wipes the corners of his mouth and lets a shaking breath out. His eyes are so dilated, Dorian would suspect the kind of Ecstasy binge-fueled thralls that’d so marked their early and mid-twenties, if he didn’t know better.

 

Now, with their twenties so recently behind them, Tam’s more of a pot, hash, mushrooms, and _very_ occasionally mescaline man. _Dorian_ , these days, finds wine a so much more _rewarding_ vice than drugs and hallucinogens. _Tripping balls_ , in the descriptive parlance of that culture, has never been as pleasant for him as it continues to be for Tam.

 

“If only to keep my hand in, Tam, yes,” Dorian admits serenely, if a bit belatedly. He chuckles and nudges Tam’s arm companionably as the men draw nearer. In the aggressively cheery sunlight, the blond one’s hair shines like a beacon. Like spun gold. “I say, the big one looks as if he could snap us like twigs simultaneously! _Without_ even breaking a sweat!”

 

“He could snap _me_ , anytime,” Tam purrs absently, and probably not quietly, but Krem has already moved in the direction of dog and men. “ _Every time_ , as a matter of fact.”

 

“Ugh.” Dorian rolls his eyes fondly as Tam stands, brushing his clothes and face free of biscuit crumbs, then running a hand over his shaggy, somewhat frizzy, shoulder-length hair. It, of course, doesn’t make him look any more pulled together—Tam is many things, but organized and neat are none of them—but it does settle that wild, red mane around his gamin face even more fetchingly. And, combined with Tam’s big, dazzling eyes and smile, makes Dorian’s best friend shine at least as bright as the sun above.

 

Following suit, Dorian also stands, brushes away nonexistent crumbs, and smooths his ever-precise undercut as well as his mustache. Thankfully, his tasteful, dark business casual-wear won’t show up any missed lunch crumbs.

 

Meanwhile, Cú has long since reached the men and stood up on her hind legs, her huge forepaws on the blond’s shoulders. She’s trying her best to lick him to death while he laughs and holds her somewhat at bay. On her hind legs, she’s _tall_ . . . about as tall as her human, and her tail is such a blur of motion, it looks like the blades of an oscillating fan.

 

The brunet—his hair is _actually_ a silvering near-black, styled in an almost parodically long, pompadour side cut, and tapered and buzzed on both sides of his head—scoops up a giggling Krem and kisses his cheek with a ringing, demonstrative smack. That only makes the boy giggle harder as he wraps his arms around the large man’s neck.

 

“What’d I tell ya about wanderin’ off alone without telling me where you’re goin’, bruiser?” The huge man complains, but he’s smiling with deep affection and warmth, and holding the child close and protectively. “You’re gonna give your old _Tama_ a heart-attack goin’ walk-about, like that!”

 

“You’re not _old_!” Krem argues, sounding personally offended. The large man rolls his pale-gray right eye and kisses the top of Krem’s head. “And I wasn’t alone, _Tama_! _Cú_ was with me!”

 

Taking a moment from the loving assault on her human, Cú barks her agreement and the large man—Krem’s father, one presumes—snorts.

 

“That’s it, you two, gang up on me. Tag-team cute against big, dumb brute,” he says wryly. Krem leans back and eyes his father with serious consideration.

 

“Cú and I are _not_ cute,” he finally decides with towering dignity, and his father rolls his eye again, fond and sardonic. Next to him, the blond smirks and snorts.

 

“You two’re cuter than a teacup fulla kittens, Krem-de-menthe. Though not so good for my poor ego.” With a third kiss on Krem’s forehead, which the boy wipes away extravagantly, but while laughing, the large man’s gaze ticks to Tam and Dorian. It lingers appreciatively on Dorian—who huffs and sniffs—but then drifts right back to Tam like it’s iron filings and Tam’s magnetic north. “And I, uh . . . see you’ve made some new friends in your rambling and traveling.”

 

“Yep!” Krem blinks over at Dorian and Tam from his father’s sheltering arms. “Cú wanted some of Tam’s biscuits, but they were chocolate and Tam had finished them all, anyway.”

 

“Even if I hadn’t, erm, eaten them all, I’d never have given Cú chocolate,” Tam says, earnest and low, with a glance at the blond, which then goes straight back to the brunet. His dazzling smile is a bit dazed.

 

“Good lookin’ out, friend,” Krem’s father approves with bluff camaraderie, but his eye is wide as he scans Tam’s face. The blond at his side, still wrangling an excited Cú, looks up with a laconic, but grateful smile.

 

“Indeed. Thank you both for your thoughtfulness. Cú’s very important to me,” he says in a quiet, unremarkable tenor, scratching the top of Cú’s head and behind her ears until she’s whining again in pure bliss. His gaze—a deep, melancholy sort of blue-grey, like tempered steel reflecting a perfect autumn sky—ticks from Tam to Dorian, and that smile falters a bit, before widening. “And thank you for keeping an eye on Krem, as well. He’s also very important to me.”

 

“Our pleasure, I assure you,” Tam replies, probably blushing. After more than a decade of friendship, Dorian knows _exactly_ what his closest friend sounds like when he’s blushing. At the moment, he’s probably gone cerise. “He’s a delightful little gentleman and Cú is a sweet young lady.”

 

Krem, blushing, too, hides his face against his father’s neck, while his father chuckles. Cú, meanwhile, barks again, as if in agreement with what was said.

 

“See?” Krem’s father rumbles in his hair. “Now that I know how well-behaved you can be around such handsome, charming acquaintances, I’m gonna expect that level of manners and deportment _all the time_ , kiddo.”

 

“ _Tamaaaaaa_!” Krem groans dramatically, and his father chuckles again, freeing one massive mitt to hold it out to Tam, his gaze gone openly appreciative and assessing once more. “Speaking of manners, I’ve apparently forgotten mine. I’m John Bull. Everyone just calls me _Bull_ , though. And you’ve met Krem.”

 

“We have, indeed,” Tam says, taking Bull’s hand and holding it, after one slow, distracted shake. “I’m, er, Tam. Tam-Lin Lavellan.”

 

“ _Yeah_ , you are.” Bull nods, seeming a bit dazed himself. Then he shakes his head and laughs self-deprecatingly. “Uh, that’s an _awesome_ name. Scottish lore, for the win!”

 

Tam chuckles, surprised and impressed. “My mother is, indeed, a _proud_ Glaswegian from generations of such. Married a _Sasunnach_ , much to the family’s dismay, but then, even my father’ll fervently agree she’s just stubborn enough to have done it to be contrary. And _stayed_ married to him for the past forty-one years for the same reason!”

 

Bull’s smile turns into a grin. “Well, with results like _you_ , I feel like my eye should send your Mom its grateful regards.”

 

“Oh, my,” Tam breathes on the back of a shy giggle, then blushes even deeper and bites his lip.

 

Dorian rolls his eyes. A glance at blond shows the man is doing the same and smiling rather wryly. He’s quite . . . affecting when he smiles. Not _devastatingly_ so, but intriguing, nonetheless.

 

“Well, I imagine that if I wait for _Tam-Lin_ to introduce me, I shall expire of old age _well_ before he remembers to make the effort! Dorian Pavus. Lovely to meet you.” With a sardonic half-bow, Dorian holds out his hand, for once without thinking of hand sanitizer or wipes. The blond’s brows, markedly darker than his hair, lift, and his smile widens, then becomes a sudden, deep laugh that lights up those solemn eyes and frames them in very attractive crow’s feet.

 

 _Ah, I suppose_ there’s _that devastation that was lacking,_ Dorian thinks with startled, almost sulky bemusement as the strangest flutters assault his stomach. He reassesses the man’s handsome, yet conventional features, but with the added accoutrements of that rich laugh, boyish grin, and the mirth illuminating those steely eyes, and downwardly revises his guesstimate of age from forty, to thirty-five.

 

“I’m, er, pleased to meet you, as well, Dorian. And, er, Tam-Lin,” the blond says, taking Dorian’s hand in a firm, warm, but not aggressive grip. His hand is rough and his fingers callused, but for all that, his hold is fairly gentle. He nods at Tam, but doesn’t look away from Dorian. “I’m Cullen Rutherford.”

 

Now, Dorian’s brows lift. “Cullen,” he says slowly, repressing a strange little shiver, but not the wry smile that curves his lips. “And . . . you named your dog [Cú](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C%C3%BA_Chulainn).”

 

Cú barks at the sound of her name, and Cullen’s grin widens even more. He’s showing no signs of letting Dorian’s hand go, and his eyes are direct and wondering.

 

“You and John are the only ones who’ve, er, ever picked up on that,” he murmurs, flushing just a bit and looking down at their clasped hands. He lets go, but reluctantly, it seems. “Sometimes I let my own illusions of cleverness take the reins and . . . it rarely ends well.”

 

Dorian chuckles. “Well, _I_ think it’s clever. Though, I’d _certainly_ not have gotten it if not for Tam-Lin and his rambling, Glaswegian kin bending my ear about all manner of Scottish claptrap. Though, I suppose _someone_ should loan me their culture as I am, but for the random French or Dutch ancestor on my father’s side, _boringly_ English, through and through.”

 

“Hmm . . . _English_ , yes. _Boringly_ so . . . not so much,” Cullen opines and Dorian blushes. Then grins, wide and idiotically. A glance at Tam—who, along with Bull, is watching them both with poorly-concealed smugness and amusement—inspires Dorian to reassume his usual aloof smile.

 

“Yes, well.” He sniffs and fights to keep that aloof smile from slipping into something far less reserved. “You’re certainly kind to say so. Very kind. Er. Quite.”

 

“Remember to allow for aeration, Dorian,” Tam murmurs playfully, then grunts when Dorian elbows him in his bony side.

 

Then, they’re all holding hands and/or staring at each other. Even Cú’s happy gaze is ping-ponging back and forth between them all expectantly.

 

“Look,” Bull finally says, at the same time Dorian huffs, Cullen clears his throat, and Tam ventures a: “Sooooooo. . . .”

 

Then, everyone falls silent again, blushing or blanching, and averting their gazes.

 

Cú barks up at Cullen, sitting on her haunches once more, and Krem sits up straighter in his father’s arms, looking Tam over with measuring, keen eyes.

 

“Do you like boys?” he asks suddenly. “My _Tama_ likes boys. Especially pretty ones and _especially_ red-haired ones. You’re pretty _and_ you have red hair!”

 

Tam’s mouth drops open and Bull’s eye widens.

 

“Uh, kiddo,” he begins at the same time Tam turns scarlet and Cullen chuckles discreetly. Dorian smirks.

 

“ _And_ you’re nice and Cú likes you!” Krem finishes, as if having saved the most important things for last.

 

“Well, erm, thank you very much, er, Krem,” Tam demurs, but Krem’s innocently weighing gaze has shifted to Dorian, who has but a moment in which to wonder what even is his life, of late. Then Krem’s speaking again, slow and thoughtful.

 

“And _you’re_ very handsome, Dorian. Like someone from a movie. _Uncle Cullen_ likes boys _and_ movies!”

 

Suddenly, Cullen’s not laughing anymore, discreetly, or otherwise, but gone pale and startled, his wide eyes darting from a satisfied Krem to a temporarily—he hopes—speechless Dorian.

 

“Boys are fun, I suppose. But I don’t think I like them. Not _kissing_ -like. Girls would be more fun for that, _I_ think,” Krem announces, then frowns. “Well, _most_ girls. Maybe not _Skinner_.”

 

“What’s wrong with Skinner? I thought you two were friends, Krem-puff?” Bull asks Krem, who sighs and glowers.

 

“We _are_. But she punched me in the back when I gave Dalish a valentine this year and asked her to be my girlfriend! Dalish said _no_ , but then Skinner was _still_ angry at me for a whole _week_!”

 

“Ahhh. The plot thickens,” Bull declares with put-on suspense and around a quiet chuckle, bending a glance and shrug Tam’s way. And Tam’s radiating such charmed wistfulness, Dorian is certain his friend has literal hearts for eyes, at this point.

 

“Ugh,” he mutters and Cullen smiles again, winking broadly in commiseration. Dorian, for his part, merely huffs, half-incredulous and half-resigned. Because, really, _who_ even meets the love of their life during a mediocre lunch-break? Over mediocre (and unspecified) kebabs with a side of half-burnt chips, and lemon-lime sugar-water? Not to _mention_ a lovely afters of half-stale chocolate biscuits that his best friend had found in the back of his junky desk’s bottom right hand drawer?

 

 _Certainly_ not Dorian Alexander Pavus—the very _idea_ is utterly improbable!

 

Though, like most of Tam-Lin Lavellan’s bright ideas—like life, itself—this lunch has gone _predictably_ askew, but in a . . . _pleasantly unpredictable_ way. Dorian finds himself unusually hesitant to write off this lunch, this day, this _life_ . . . or these new acquaintances, entirely.

 

And later— _much_ later, in the midst of the flurry and fuss of planning an expensive, stressful, but _perfect_ -if-it-kills-us- _all_ double-wedding, during which Tam, Cullen, and Bull are _less_ than no help—Dorian can only reflect that Fate, though nosy and meddling, is a far more well-meaning mistress than he’s long supposed her to be.

 

For if poking her nose in where it _hadn’t_ been invited, but where it had _become most welcome_ , keeps resulting in all the _good_ forevers—home, family, and love—then . . . Dorian’s more than willing to sit back and trust himself in her kind, capable hands.

 

(Though he _does_ come to wish she would do her part in the wedding-planning . . . or at _least_ make scheduling a suitable reception hall a _tad_ easier!)

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> stitchcasual’s Prompt: _hmm...Adoribull maybe? haven't had that in a while. and...hmmm...someone took the last of the cookies_
> 
> Not exactly that pairing, but . . . hey—there’re cookies! Or . . . there _were_. . . .
> 
> [TUMBLES, YO](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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